“Such a one is here for dacoity—two years’ sentence.”
“Where is he?” inquired the burkundaz of one of the gang.
“Working in the jail-garden gang, hazoor” (i.e. your highness).
An order was given to fetch him at once.
“They had a cat, too,” continued the policeman; “I left it at the thana. What do these beggars with a cat?”
Meanwhile a large crowd had collected round the children—the curly-haired, pretty little girl, and the miserably emaciated boy, with his lacerated feet tied up in rags—a number of market coolies and officers’ servants; and the convicts dawdled near—as closely as they dared.
In a very short time the warder returned, preceded by a tall convict. The children stared with wistful, questioning eyes; they did not recognize Chūnnee, at first glance, in the close-fitting cap drawn well over his ears, his loose dress, and chains; but after a pause of breathless amazement he cried, “Array khoda! Girunda and Gyannia, my children, how came you here?”
They rushed to him at the sound of that familiar voice, and broke into loud cries and sobs—sobs of joy and relief.
“I walked,” panted the boy presently, “and carried her. Uncle thrust us forth one night; he said he would kill us if we ever went back, so we came to thee. We will abide with thee; we will never leave thee,” sobbed the boy, clinging to his hands, whilst Chūnnee took the girl up in his arms and fondled her.
“We are so tired and hungry, father; may we not go to thy house and rest?” and Gyannia dropped her head on his shoulder.